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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26799037">The Loss I Live Again</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/hvanwoong/pseuds/hvanwoong'>hvanwoong</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>ONEUS (Band)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Knight!Hwanwoong, M/M, One Shot, Separation Anxiety, Trauma, king!youngjo</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 07:27:58</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,819</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26799037</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/hvanwoong/pseuds/hvanwoong</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Sending Hwanwoong away to war again when he has only just got him back is one thing.</p><p>Living with the fear that he’ll be taken again is quite another.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Kim Youngjo | Ravn/Yeo Hwanwoong</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>84</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Loss I Live Again</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hello all ^-^ It’s been a while since I wrote the first vignette to follow up to my work The Man I Knew. This is the second vignette. If you haven’t read <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24791806/chapters/59953795">The Man I Knew</a>, then it won’t make too much sense. Please check out that work first!<br/>CW/ references to violence, separation anxiety<br/>Vi ~</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Youngjo paces back and forth.</p><p>The chamber is wide and high-ceilinged. Thin blue carpets cover the grey flagstones underfoot and torches lit around the walls cast Youngjo’s shadow into four different directions. His crown, gold and encrusted with delicate gems, rests heavy atop a velvet pillow, and the throne room could be mistaken for a vault with all its finery. No one threatens their citadel, so the display of wealth is unrestrained. Heavy wrought iron rings hold the flaming torches that hang from the ceilings.</p><p>Youngjo paces and the sound echoes.</p><p>It reverberates from wall to wall. If the room were filled with the court then the sound would not ring so hauntingly, but Youngjo is alone. Like a ricocheting arrow, the echo crashes around him. He feels vulnerable with no sword at his belt, but he is becoming used to the stiff starched clothes of kinghood and the sacrifice of his defence to the responsibility of others.</p><p>He looks up as a clunk indicates the opening of the main doors. Seoho crosses the hall with firm but wary steps. They never speed up, nor slow down. And his face is guarded, because too many of them have been snapped at recently. Only yesterday, Youngjo lost his cool so badly with Dongju that he’s sure the young knight won’t dare to visit him alone for some time.</p><p>‘Sire…’</p><p>‘Did their party arrive?’ Youngjo cuts across. If Seoho has not brought news, then he does not wish to see him.</p><p>‘The blizzard has spread, sire. I’m sure that they have taken cover in the woods.’</p><p>Youngjo rounds on him and takes an almost threatening step forwards. ‘Why have you come to me with no news? It’s been seven days since word was sent of their departure! They ought to be here by now.’ His lungs constrict and he cannot get a grasp on his thoughts. They run away without him and his mind is filled with images. Terrible images. ‘Tell me why you’ve come to me with <em>nothing</em>!’</p><p>Seoho tilts his chin up. He looks older, these days. A scar from battle has cut across his cheek but it’s barely visible now. And from what Youngjo has heard, his betrothed has all sorts of beautiful things to say about it. ‘I came because the others are too afraid of you when you’re like this,’ says Seoho. ‘They sent me.’</p><p>‘Sent you to do what?’ Youngjo snaps.</p><p>‘To haul you to your bed. When did you last sleep?’</p><p>‘I’ll sleep when Hwanwoong is home with me.’</p><p>Seoho raises one eyebrow. ‘Hwanwoong will flay me alive when he gets home and finds you like this.’</p><p>Like <em>this </em>must refer to the black shadows beneath Youngjo’s eyes. The stress of ruling a kingdom is one thing, but being without Hwanwoong for so many months has aged him many years.</p><p>It feels like only yesterday and yet a lifetime ago that Hwanwoong left. He took his stallion and his sacred sword and his purple cloak of the royal family and did not turn to wave as he rode out ahead of his squadron. In the last two years Hwanwoong has assembled his own unit of men and women, trained by himself. They’re the only soldiers that he trusts. Youngjo understands. Trust is hard for Hwanwoong. He rode away as late spring turned to summer.</p><p>Now, winter has a deathly grip on the land. The war in the far north has raged for months and Youngjo has learned to make do with scrawled letters in Hwanwoong’s near-illegible script, and the word from the official court heralds. They were winning, that much was known for a long time. But winning is a broad concept, whereas Hwanwoong’s life is a small, vital detail. Far more important.</p><p>When Youngjo put a crown on his head, he knew that it would not tame him. Hwanwoong is a wild tiger to war. But accepting reality does not make it any easier.</p><p>‘I need him home, Seoho,’ says Youngjo. ‘I need him home with me. What if he has been captured? It has been days. Nobody has heard from them. There are men still loyal to Helios. There are forces to the far north. There are men everywhere who wish to take him from me. What if - ’</p><p>‘Stop,’ whispers Seoho. He rests his hands on Youngjo’s shoulders and propels him to his throne.</p><p>He slumps down onto the seat. It is rock hard, formed from gold and metal and cast into twisting, spiking patterns.</p><p>‘They haven’t taken him, hyung,’ Seoho says. ‘I promise you. They haven’t taken him.’</p><p>The images haunt Youngjo’s every hour, awake and asleep. He cannot rest for nightmares and he cannot speak for dread. During every minute of Hwanwoong’s absence, he has seen him: captured, tortured, and more than once hanging from the gallows or beheaded or left slain and rotting on the battlefield. He’s woken in the night by phantom screams. He’s never heard such a thing from Hwanwoong but he imagines it, in painstaking detail.</p><p>‘You don’t know that.’</p><p>‘I know,’ Seoho whispers. He squeezes Youngjo’s shoulder. ‘He’s okay.’</p><p>The first month was easy. Youngjo has become used to Hwanwoong’s time away. After that, though, it grew harder. He remembers waking up in the night and vomiting in the midst of his cold sweats. He cannot <em>help </em>but remember drafting a letter to have him removed from war and brought back home to him. He’d only torn it up because he’d known that if he’d sent it, Hwanwoong would’ve killed him himself.</p><p>His eyes close and panic rises in his chest.</p><p>Seven days.</p><p>There is no reason why their journey south could not have been completed in four. Even with the blizzard…</p><p><em>They’ve caught him</em>.</p><p>The fist of fear clenches on his wind pipe.</p><p><em>They’ve taken him again</em>.</p><p>Guilt.</p><p>The first time that Youngjo let them capture him, it took three years for them to find their way back to each other. Every second of torture was his fault. And this time? He’s the one that permitted his consort to leave. If he’s caught then it’s because he let them take him.</p><p>Was Hwanwoong ready? Was he ready to go away for so long?</p><p>For the last few months, Hwanwoong’s mental state has been inconsistent. At times he seems indestructible. At others, he seems fragile as a flower stem, liable to snap. When he does snap, it comes in two forms: unleashing abject rage on everyone around him, and falling apart into attacks of terrible panic.</p><p>‘How can I sleep when they could be torturing him?’</p><p>Seoho meets his eyes and he gives his shoulder a rough shake. ‘<em>Stop</em>. He’s fine. He’s probably cold as hell and looking forward to getting home so that you can spoil him with wine and… I don’t know… whatever the two of you do together when you’re alone. The scouts will find them in the next few hours, I’m sure. They’ll send word. You need to rest. You can’t greet him like this.’</p><p>Youngjo’s voice is faint. ‘Hwanwoong won’t care how I look.’</p><p>‘You’re a king, hyung. Appearances matter.’</p><p>Something in the lilt of Seoho’s voice makes Youngjo’s eyes droop. Exhaustion weighs heavy on his limbs. He does not remember the last time that he slept. Sweat from the flaming torches beads on his forehead and his chest rises and falls at rapid pace. The exertion of months of worrying crashes down onto his shoulders all at once and he slumps in his throne. There is no comfort in the upright seat but what would be more comforting? His bed? The bed that he shares with Hwanwoong and that will only make him think of him even more?</p><p>Sleep drags him under like ocean waves. A part of him is still conscious and aware of Seoho by his side, but another part of him sinks into blackness. His fitful sleep is interrupted by visions of Hwanwoong, from whispers that he’ll be home soon to anger, shouting at him that he abandoned him. Dreams of Hwanwoong tracing the lines of his face and body fade into nightmares about Sun City and the grim dungeon that Youngjo only visited once, before he ordered the destruction and reconstruction of the fortress. In every dream, Hwanwoong looks the same.</p><p>His face is cut. Youngjo hasn’t dreamed of the way he looked before in a very long time. He’s almost forgotten how Hwanwoong looked before he was scarred.</p><p>Youngjo jerks awake from one of his better dreams at the clang, the clang of the main doors, and blinks his way frantically back to reality. Someone has placed a blanket over his legs and relit the fires. Seoho is speaking in hushed tones to Geonhak, who has crossed the hall in a travelling coat. They both look up at the same moment and Youngjo catches their eyes. When he stands, body aching from sleeping in the twisting throne, the blanket falls to the floor.</p><p>‘Sire, the party have been sighted! They’re riding through to the citadel,’ says Geonhak. There are drops of snow in his hair.</p><p>Everything moves very fast after that. Youngjo’s legs shake and he has to lower himself back onto the throne with stiff fingers on the arms. He is not dressed in the correct robes to address the court, but no one encourages him to change. His hands are shaking. His heart pounds in his ears but it’s drowned out by the relentless rush of blood. Sick with relief, it takes all of his strength just to order the servants around the hall and greet the other members of the court as they arrive.</p><p>Geonhak and Seoho have ridden out to meet the returning party, bringing hot milk and fresh rice rolls from the kitchens lest they be drained from the days in the forest. Will the frost have bitten at Hwanwoong’s fingertips? Those thoughts drift in and out of Youngjo’s head.</p><p>‘I’m going to run out the front,’ says Dongju, finally daring to be in his presence again. Only Keonhee stays in the hall, resolute by the side of Youngjo’s throne. Does Keonhee see it? Does he see the way that Youngjo’s hands are shaking and sweat beads on his forehead despite the blizzard outside? Does he know that inside Youngjo is paralysed by fear still, fear that the party will return minus one?</p><p>‘The heralds bring news that the battle is won,’ one of his courtiers whispers in a rush, close to his ear, but the voice sounds distant.</p><p><em>It doesn’t matter</em>, he wants to say, <em>I don’t care</em>. But a king cannot say such things.</p><p>Half of the royal court piles into the hall for the greeting. They are here to see Hwanwoong, Youngjo knows. The return of his consort is more of a thrill for the gossiping of the court than their victory in battle.</p><p>A fanfare sounds as the grand doors are pushed open again.</p><p>Youngjo rises from his throne. Tiredness grips him in its hold but he manages to step forwards.</p><p>
  <em>Hwanwoong.</em>
</p><p>Until he is in his line of sight, Youngjo does not truly believe that he is alive. It’s a shameful dread that lives in his belly but it’s one that he can never shift. Every moment in which Hwanwoong is outside of his gaze, he is convinced that something terrible has happened. And who can he confide in? Such a weakness in a king is not something that he can ever share.</p><p>For a moment, even, he doubts it with Hwanwoong before him.</p><p>Is it one of his dreams? Is it going to turn into one of his nightmares?</p><p>But there is Hwanwoong. He’s drenched to the bone with melted snow, and there is a blossoming bruise over his scarred cheekbone, but otherwise he looks well. War has not starved him. In fact, his shoulders are broad and his face filled out. A little ruddy, eyes bright and gleaming, gloved fingers wrapped around the hilt of his sword. And the purple cloak of Youngjo’s family rests over his shoulders, over his armour.</p><p>It is moment like this that Youngjo hates being a king.</p><p>He cannot launch himself forward. He cannot take his love into his arms after months of war. He cannot whisper words into his hear and listen to soft whispers in return. Instead, he inclines his head in a bow of respect and Hwanwoong bows too, along with the rest of his battalion. But Youngjo has eyes only for Hwanwoong. When his consort looks up, their eyes meet and he sees the small smile that finds its way onto Hwanwoong’s face. It lifts one corner of his lips and it’s as though he wants to laugh. Youngjo wants to laugh too.</p><p>How stupid he has been. How afraid. How could he ever have thought that Hwanwoong wouldn’t make it home to him?</p><p>‘Send word to the kitchens!’ announces Youngjo, his voice mechanical. ‘A feast must be arranged! The finest feast of the year.’ He longs to wrap this up as soon as possible. His fingers itch to take Hwanwoong’s hand. His whole body itches for more; he will not feel content until he has taken him into his arms and his bed. But he will start with his hand.</p><p>Decorum suggests that once the eyes of the court are downturned, he can dare so far. As everyone hastens to arrange the feast, excited whispers spreading across the hall, some of the courtiers spill in amongst the company to begin to extract stories of war from the soldiers. Hwanwoong skips the three steps up to the level of the throne, and with his ever-present bravery he reaches to take Youngjo’s hand. ‘My king.’</p><p>‘Don’t call me that,’ whispers Youngjo.</p><p>Hwanwoong kneels and presses a kiss to the purple gemstone on Youngjo’s finger. People look their way. Hushed tones fill the hall. The spot that Hwanwoong kisses burns like fire even though his lips are cold. His gloved hand does not betray the calloused fingers, the feel of his skin. Youngjo needs to feel it to know that he is real. His breath speeds up and he needs to touch him <em>now</em>.</p><p>‘I have won you a great victory.’ There’s definitely a smile that borders on a smirk in Hwanwoong’s eyes. It’s like he has no idea. No idea of the Youngjo he left behind. ‘I hope that you’ll reward me such.’</p><p>‘You must change from your wet clothes. You’ll catch a chill.’</p><p>‘Then take me somewhere.’</p><p>Youngjo does.</p><p>Then he waits and waits.</p><p>He waits as servants bring the hot spiced wine that he ordered for Hwanwoong. He waits as they light fires in the side-chamber and lay out warm, pressed clothes of the court. <em>How long has it been, </em>Youngjo wonders, <em>since Hwanwoong stepped out of his armour</em>? The longer that his love stands before him, the more that it settles into his heart and mind that he is real. This is real. It feels like finding him all over again back in the woods.</p><p>Only when the door is pulled closed, does Youngjo give up on being a king.</p><p>He pulls Hwanwoong into a crushing hug. The embrace is so tight that Hwanwoong winces – he is no doubt bruised and battered from war – and Youngjo releases him and holds him back to look up and down his form. ‘My love,’ he whispers. Hwanwoong’s wet hair has dripped on his shoulder, staining his purple robes black. ‘My everything.’ He touches his face, turning it to the side to examine the bruise.</p><p>Hwanwoong, who is less physical with his love, shifts awkwardly. ‘Sire…’</p><p>‘Who did this?’</p><p>‘I killed him,’ says Hwanwoong by way of an answer.</p><p>‘I missed you.’ He blurts it out.</p><p>Hwanwoong tilts his head to the side. He takes Youngjo’s hands again and lifts them to his lips to kiss his knuckles. ‘I missed you too.’</p><p>‘I bet that you didn’t,’ laughs Youngjo softly, ‘you were busy doing what you love the most.’</p><p>‘There are things I love more than war.’</p><p>Youngjo cannot resist kissing him any longer. He cups the back of his neck and pulls him in to press a kiss to his forehead and then his lips. He longs to warm him, to replace the blizzard with his presence. He parts Hwanwoong’s lips and caresses his face, his wet hair, grazes his fingers down to his throat to feel the pulse at his neck. Anything to know that he is alive. ‘I thought you’d never come home to me,’ says Youngjo against Hwanwoong’s cheek, and his voice cracks.</p><p>Hwanwoong pushes him away and holds him by the forearms. ‘Youngjo, you - ’</p><p>Now, under his gaze, Youngjo cannot keep himself under control. His breath comes out in a shaky gasp and catches in his throat and his eyes sting with tears that kings aren’t allowed to shed. He looks down at the floor, turning away in shame, but Hwanwoong keeps a hold on his arms and turns him back to him.</p><p>‘Youngjo, talk to me.’</p><p>‘I thought they’d take you again. I thought terrible things, Woong. I thought - ’</p><p>‘I’m right here,’ says Hwanwoong. ‘I’m fine.’</p><p>‘I thought they’d take you from me again. I thought they’d hurt you again.’ His voice comes out in unveiled chokes now. He is embarrassed, but there is nothing that he can do to stop it. This is not how he imagined their reunion.</p><p>‘I’m cold,’ says Hwanwoong after a pause. He keeps his own voice very steady. ‘I’m cold, and I’m tired, and I need to have Dongheon examine a wound in my side. I can’t be what you need me to be right now.’</p><p>Youngjo’s heart breaks into two. This is how it is, with Hwanwoong. With his knight. With his consort. Hwanwoong is not the sort of man to embrace him and murmur reassurances to him. He wasn’t that way before Sun City, and he won’t be now. He’s a warrior. That’s how Youngjo loves him. That’s how a king ought to love him. But he needs that reassurance too. ‘I know,’ he chokes, ‘I know.’</p><p>Hwanwoong swallows, making the sharp point of his throat bob. ‘Youngjo, you know I’m… you know I’m not good at…’</p><p>‘I know.’</p><p>A silence settles between them. With a sigh, Hwanwoong steps forward and wraps his arms around him. It’s only a little awkward. ‘I’m okay. They barely touched me.’</p><p>‘I didn’t know.’</p><p>‘I sent you letters.’</p><p>‘And I feared for you every moment that I wasn’t reading them.’</p><p>‘I’m here now.’</p><p>Youngjo pulls away and kneads his eyes with his palms to push away the last threat of tears. ‘I can hardly believe it. I barely believe you’re real.’</p><p>Before him, Hwanwoong begins to undress. He unhooks his armour and tosses it aside. It is rusted and tarnished and dented, and will surely not be recovered after today. Then he unlaces his outer, wet clothes, and sheds those too. Youngjo looks away in a semblance of modesty, but then Hwanwoong’s voice cuts through the air. ‘Look at me.’</p><p>He turns his eyes back to watch him. Hwanwoong peels away damp clothes to reveal skin. When he drops the last of his underclothes, Youngjo swallows, embarrassed to be stood in the chamber like this in his ceremonial robes while Hwanwoong strips naked. But he watches. He takes in the old, grey scars on his back and across his body. He takes in the new wound at his side that has soaked a little blood through a torn white bandage. He takes in pale bruises and the familiar curves of his muscles and every detail down to his fingers and his feet.</p><p>‘I’m right here,’ says Hwanwoong, voice hard. ‘Look at me. <em>Look at me</em>.’</p><p>Youngjo blinks and gulps down the lump in his throat. He glances up but then returns his gaze to the floor. ‘I know.’</p><p>‘Tell me you see me.’</p><p>His voice cracks again. ‘I see you.’</p><p>Hwanwoong lifts the fresh, warm clothes that the servants bought and begins to dress. ‘Lace this,’ he says, with one of the pale blue garments to be worn under his court clothes. ‘We’ll feast before I go to Dongheon.’</p><p>Youngjo crosses to him again and pulls together the cords at the neck. He leans close and breathes in against his throat. Hwanwoong smells of war and the forest and still <em>him</em>. He lets his arms wrap around his waist and strokes over every line of Hwanwoong’s body until he’s convinced himself that each one is real. ‘I was so scared, Hwanwoong.’</p><p>‘I know,’ Hwanwoong’s voice softens at last. ‘I’m sorry. I'm sorry that I snapped. I’ve been… I’ve been at war for months.’</p><p>Youngjo understands. He has been to war. He knows how it is to return and find the comforts of home jarring. He knows how hard it is to accept soft words and soft touches when everything has been war for so long. ‘It’s okay. I know. I understand. I remember. I remember war.’ Harsh words, rough hands, threat as heavy as blood on the air. ‘I understand.’</p><p>Hwanwoong rests his head back against his shoulder and closes his eyes. It gives Youngjo the chance to lean down and bury kisses into his neck. His hands slide under his robes just to touch his skin. ‘I don’t want to waste time on feasts and celebrations,’ whispers Hwanwoong.</p><p>‘I don’t want to either.’</p><p>‘I hate that you owe your kingdom your time more than you owe your consort.’</p><p>Youngjo sighs and turns him around to caress his cheek with his hand. ‘I’ll take you to Dongheon later. And then we’ll retire to our quarters and no one will see us again for days.’</p><p>‘Who’ll write the declarations?’ Hwanwoong asks with a small smile.</p><p>‘My courtiers. I’ll bathe war out of your skin and you’ll kiss my nightmares away.’</p><p>Hwanwoong nods. ‘Did you really think about it every day? About me being taken again?’</p><p>‘Every day and night.’</p><p>His teeth worry his lip, and then he lets his hands fall to his side. His hair curls as the fire dries it out. ‘It’ll never happen again, Youngjo.’</p><p>‘I don’t like it when you leave.’</p><p>Hwanwoong’s eyes fall closed. The bruise on his cheek is black and purple. ‘Then ask me to stay, next time.’</p><p>‘How can I ask you to give up something that’s a part of your soul?’</p><p>‘Start <em>with </em>asking,’ whispers Hwanwoong, and he stands on the tips of his toes to kiss the corner of his lips, a gentle graze.</p><p>In that moment, Youngjo believes it. He believes with a warm rush in his chest that if he asked Hwanwoong to stay, then Hwanwoong would choose him. In his fresh blue robes, hair curling over his forehead, Hwanwoong does not look like a machine of war anymore. He just looks like <em>his.</em></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p><a href="https://twitter.com/hvanwoong">twt</a><br/><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24791806/chapters/59953795">The Man I Knew</a>.<br/><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25597543">The Hope I Feed On</a>.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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